


The Seal and The Silence

by PuffleLock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Coffee Shops, First Kiss, Homophobic Language, M/M, Magical Realism, Mute Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Selkie AU, Terrible interpretations of British folklore, Twitter Plot Bunnies made me do this., Uni!lock, they both have secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-01-07 13:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuffleLock/pseuds/PuffleLock
Summary: John Watson was very different from his classmates. So much more so than any of them would have ever believed, if he had ever thought to trust anyone with his secret. No, he’d sworn he would never speak of it, doing what he could to hide it, knowing that no one would ever be able to understand.Less than ten years ago, the John Watson that they all knew - the polite, well-liked, attractive, intelligent young man studying his arse off to become a respectable surgeon; the one who helped others during study groups, who went out of his way to make sure everyone felt welcome at parties or gatherings - simply did not exist.





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson was an unusual young man.

It’s not that he wasn't well-liked or was difficult to speak to; in fact, he was one of the easiest guys to get along with amongst his current class of med students.  He kept a close circle of friends; fellow students he could talk to, hang out and study with. They were friends that made him feel, if even in a tiny way, like he belonged. John wasn’t stupid or falling behind in any of his studies; John was highly intelligent. While he wasn’t going make top of his class, he was not far behind. He wasn’t unattractive; if he had much mind to pay attention even he would notice the appreciative looks he got from both men and women alike. He didn't behave oddly, at least when others were around. He did as reasonable of a job fitting in as any other young student trying to find their place in the world, even if for him it were a bit more involved. There were times that he seemed a little out of sorts when talking about pop culture or had a few odd things around his room in the flat he shared with his friend Mike, but not so much that people noticed.

No, John Watson was none of these things, but still, he was very different. So much more so than any of his classmates would have ever believed, if he had ever thought to trust anyone with his secret. No, he’d sworn he would never speak of it, doing what he could to hide it, knowing that no one would ever be able to understand.

Less than ten years ago, the John Watson that they all knew - the polite, well-liked, attractive, intelligent young man studying his arse off to become a respectable surgeon; the one who helped others during study groups, who went out of his way to make sure everyone felt welcome at parties or gatherings - simply did not exist.

John Watson wasn't born in London, like he had told everyone. He wasn't orphaned at a young age when his single mother died in a car accident, with no other family to speak of, left to fend for himself in foster homes until he was of age, working to be the best in his studies, to get accepted into medical school. While he did work harder than any of his classmates to prove himself, it was for entirely different reasons.

His mother, and the rest of his large family, was, in fact, alive and well, though he hadn’t seen or spoken to them in years. His family never had understood their youngest son and he knew his fate was not set with them. His parents lived up north, on the Farne Islands, off the Northumberland coast, where John had been born and raised, along with the rest of his family, as they had for generations. They did not live in one the few lighthouses that scattered the islands, though, where one would normally find the extremely sparse human population of the islands.

Because, well, John and his family were not human at all.

John was a Selkie; a creature most - if they had even heard of them - simply thought of as silly beasts from folklore, one of a hundred stories passed down from generation to generation by yarn-telling grandmothers. Old stories that told of shapeshifters, an ancient mythical seal people, able to shift into human form by shedding their seal skins. Legend spoke of unlucky selkies bound to marry those who stole their treasured coats when they had walked the land and dared to venture too far from the sea.

These were not tall tales of impossible things. They were not silly fairy tales to John. They were the warnings told to selkie young to keep them with the clan. The selkies were a private and content race, never seeking to venture far from the waters of their ancestral homes. While it was not unheard of for selkies to venture into the land of humans, most returned quickly, happy to be back amongst their own kind, lazing about on rocks for their entire existence.

While John was unusual compared to his fellow students, he had also been considered quite strange amongst his own kind as well. Of course, Selkies walked the land; what would be the point of being a shapeshifter if they didn’t, but none had ever gone as young or had stayed amongst the humans for as long as John had voluntarily. The lazy life most selkies led had never appealed to him. Even as a young pup, he had always frightened his kin, wandering closer to humans, exploring further from the clan than any of his kinsfolk had ever dared.

John had been 16 when he left the sea and shed his skin to walk amongst humans. He had prepared, as well as he could while under the constant watchful gaze of his clan, gathering items he could use to make his way. Finally, one night, while his family slept, he quietly slipped away, gathered his stash, and swam south to warmer waters before finally coming to land. Once he had shed his skin, willing it into a soft blue cashmere scarf he carefully hung around his neck, he changed into the human attire he had gathered from the few homes within his clan’s territory.  He had seen the name John Watson etched upon an old weathered headstone in the churchyard that greeted him when he came aground and was struck by a sense of familiarity settling over him as he read the name.

_ I guess that’s who I am now. _

John slowly made his way to London. Though it was further from the safety of the sea, he decided it would be easier to slip into a larger city than if he were to settle in a smaller town. A little known selkie power that aided in John’s journey was his ability to influence others. He could never “make” someone do something they truly did not want to do, but he could guide their decision in his favor. John used his power of influence sparingly because he hated the idea of blocking someone's ability to choose for themselves in any way, but desperate times called for desperate measures. This ability is what eventually gained him a government acknowledged identity and place in the foster care system. He was enrolled in school, quickly making up for lost time, soaking up all the knowledge he could.

Studies amazed him; he always sought out to learn more, unable to hide his glee at all the information available to him now. Once he learned of modern medicine, John knew he wanted to be a doctor. With his knowledge of the mystic old ways passed down amongst his kind, combined with modern science he now had access to, there could be no limit to the good he could do. There were mysteries and magic in this world that so many had no clue existed. Wonders most would never know; creatures and powers beyond imagination. Sights beyond what the human mind thought possible. John was one of the very few that knew of this other world; knew of the thin veil between the two, himself straddling the line between the old and new.

At the moment, though, John cared not a whit for any of that. The only mystery he currently cared about was whether he was going to pass the exam he had later that morning in his anatomy class. His kind or any of the others that were normally hidden from the eyes of humans - the Grim, the luberkin, or Robin Goodfellow himself - could parade down the streets of London, and John could care less.

He had been too tired to study the night before, so he’d woken early to go over the material, but his roommate Mike had fallen asleep on the couch and was doing his best impression of a shoddy bandsaw. With his snoring far too loud of a distraction, John made his way to the all-night coffee shop around the corner from their flat.  John had sat at his table since 4:30 that morning, staring his textbook, cramming in a few more terms, and trying his best to ignore the gorgeous barista who'd started working there a few weeks ago.

The only other patrons there that morning had left, leaving a mess of their table and John watched as the young man came out from behind the counter to clean it. He found himself admiring as the tall brunet wiped the table, the muscles of his arms and back flexing, his dark curls falling into his face as he leaned over. John felt a blush rise to his face when the barista leaned over to pick up a piece of trash, giving him a perfect view of his round firm arse. So lost in his thoughts, John didn’t notice when the man looked up at him after a moment. John finally met his eyes before quickly dropping his gaze, embarrassed. John looked back up, trying to save face, and gave the barista his best “Idiots are everywhere, what can you do?” look and the taller man shrugged back at him.

It was an odd silent conversation between the two men, the first they had really communicated with each other. They managed to not speak a word, but still understood each other perfectly. John realizes with a slight shock, that he'd never actually heard the man speak, only ever having spoken to Molly, the girl who usually worked behind the counter with him.

The bell over the door rang to announce the arrival of new customers and it brought John out his thoughts. Glancing down at his watch, he saw that time had gotten away from him and that he was in serious danger of being late for class. He jumped up and started throwing his things in his bag as quickly he could. His instructor, Dr. Bennett was a stickler for the rules and one of hers was, “Arrive timely for class or don’t arrive at all.” He threw on his jacket, and grabbed his bag, lastly arranging his ever-present blue scarf over his shoulders.  He leaned over to drain the last dregs of coffee from his cup but was in such a rush that as he turned and made for the door, he didn't feel his scarf, his one vital tangible connection to his true nature, catch on the chair, and slip from around his neck.

 

~~~~~

 

Sherlock watched as the attractive blond ran out the door. _Someone's late for class,_ he thought _._ He had watched as the young medical student studied throughout the early morning and was certain that he would pass. Sherlock finished restocking the morning pastries before grabbing a rag to wipe down his table. As he walked over, he saw the man’s scarf hanging from the chair. Sherlock took it carefully and briefly considered running after him to return it. _But to get his attention, I'd have to talk… God, maybe even yell after him_. 

Considering that Sherlock hadn’t spoken in the presence of another living soul for over five years, he quickly decided against it.

_ He’s always wearing this, and he's in all the time, he’ll be back for it.  _

He considered leaving the scarf in the Lost and Found box behind the counter, but Sherlock couldn’t bear the thought of the soft blue material mixing with all the forgotten detritus of other customers, even possibly being mistakenly taken by another.

_ No _ , he walked in the back of the store and laid it over his bag.  _ I’m just keeping it safe,  _ he tells himself.  Sherlock stepped back out to finish up his work for his shift; his co-worker,  _ Marge? Mary? Milly? No! Molly!  _ chatting away at him, not deterred by the fact that Sherlock only ever responds in huffs, shrugs and eye-rolls. 

Before leaving a few minutes later, he went in back to collect his things, the scarf still sitting on top of his bag. Sherlock looked around to make sure that Molly was still up front and before he could stop himself, he took the scarf and brought it to his face to feel the soft fibers against his skin. He was embarrassed that he would do this, but the young medical student has captivated his thoughts since Sherlock first set eyes on him.  He took a deep breath in, taking in the scent, but was surprised when he is hit with memories of his eccentric Aunt Adeline. More specifically, of visiting her and her small cottage in Sussex, which overlooked the great waters of the English Channel.

Sherlock did not smell the man’s shampoo or cologne in the fibers of his scarf.  No, Sherlock smelled the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking a peak at the first chapter! I'm leaving the chapter count open for the moment. There's no schedule in my head (sorry), will post as completed.
> 
> Tags and rating subject to change!
> 
> As always, comments, questions.... corrections, don't hesitate!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sits for his exam, unaware his life is about to get very complicated.

John ran across campus, thankful to all the sprints he was forced to endure for rugby practice. He made it to the lecture hall with barely five minutes to spare. He slipped through the doors, catching his breath, while scanning the room for a decent seat. He thankfully saw Mike in the back row, with a seat open next to him, waving him over. John made his way over, slipping into the seat, thanking Mike as he started to grab his things out of his bag. 

“No problem, mate. Almost started to worry about you, thought you might not make it. I guess I ran you off with the snoring, huh? Figured you were out studying somewhere when I didn’t see you this morning.”

“Yeah, but don’t worry about it. It’s my own fault for not studying last night. And hey, I’ve lived with you for over a year, I’m used to it most of the time. Just needed somewhere a bit quieter this morning, so I just went down to that coffee shop around the corner. I guess I lost track of time studying.”

Mike smiled his not-so-innocent smug little smirk and shot John a look over his glasses. One that John must have felt because he looked up over at his flatmate.

“What?”

“Studying, huh? That's what you’re calling it now?” Mike said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, I’d call it studying… that’s what I was doing. What the hell would you call it?” John looked at him, brow wrinkled, genuinely confused.

“Oh, I don’t know, I think I’d call it, pining over the hot guy that works there?”

John's eyes widened, and he felt the heat rise to his cheeks before he could stop himself.  He hadn’t thought he’d been that obvious about his interest in the young man. And here was Mike,  calling him out like it was nothing.  John buried his face in his notebook to keep his expression hidden.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not  _ pining  _ over anyone.”

“Seriously John,” Mike started with an exasperated look on his face, “you do realize you mention him every time you go down there? And you get this weird far-away look in your eyes when you do. It’s frankly a bit sad to watch.”

John just stared at Mike, not sure what to say.

“Just ask the guy out already.”

John finally opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, Dr. Bennett appeared and began handing out their tests; the stern look she gave the pair of them assured them that all further conversation was done for the moment.

“I do not pine.” He mumbled, Mike giving a soft chuckle beside him.

“Whatever you say, John.”

John looked down at the test in front of him, trying to take in the words. He was in a state; not only nervous about the test, but shocked by what Mike had said. He had figured out not only John’s crush on the barista, but he also had no problem that the crush his  _ male  _ flatmate had was with another man.

John had never really  _ come out  _ as gay _ ,  _ exactly. He didn’t date, never had his whole time on land, so he had never felt it necessary. Romance was complicated enough but being gay in a world that wasn't always accepting, plus his true nature - with all its ancient rules and mystic trappings - made everything so ridiculously difficult, he had been content to stay unattached.  But John realized Mike was right. He had managed to somehow bring the brunet up in conversation every time he went down to the coffee shop. John didn’t even know his name or what the man’s voice sounded like, but the memory of the look they shared just a short time prior had already begun crumbling away at his resolve.

John shook his head to focus. He was so out of it that he didn't take his jacket off before delving into his test, desperate to distract his thoughts from the tall, lanky brunet.

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

Sherlock stepped out of the cab, and made his way into his flat, trying his best to be quiet.  Normally this wouldn’t be a problem for a man who never spoke, but Mrs. Hudson, his landlady and downstairs neighbor, seemed especially attuned to Sherlock's comings and goings. Before he’d even crossed the threshold, her door was open, and she popped out, eager to fuss over him.

“Oh, good morning Sherlock, I thought I heard you coming in. Just getting home from work then?”

He gave me her a tired smile and a small nod as she walked up to him.  _ Yes, Mother Hen.  _  Sherlock leaned over and gave her a quick peck on her cheek before taking off his coat to hang up.

“Did you have anything to eat at work, dear?”

He turned to her, his head tilted just so, and fixed her with a pointed look.  _ When do I ever? Mrs. Hudson, really?  _ His eyebrow was raised in a look of guilty/innocent/indignant apathy he’d given her a thousand times before.

“Of course not, I know. You never do, do you? Oh, don’t you look at me like that, young man!”

Sherlock gave Mr. Hudson his best sheepish expression, one that he hoped would placate the older woman worrying over him.

“You can stop with the puppy dog eyes, Sherlock, they don’t work with me, you know that.” Sherlock did, in fact know that the look didn’t work on her. Mrs. Hudson was no pushover. He adored her for it, but of course, that would never stop him from trying. The older woman still continued to fuss over him , “If I remember correctly, you've no class today, right?”

He gave her a small nod.  _ No, thankfully, my one day without distraction. _

“So, I’m going to make you a bit of a fry-up and you are going to eat what I bring up to you. Then, you are going to get some sleep today, young man. You know, I hear you, fussing about at all hours, with school and your violin, and that job of yours, and god knows whatever else you get up to up there.”

She gently steered him towards the stairs, handing him his bag as he started up.

“Now get up there, Sherlock, get yourself in the shower; you look exhausted. I'll bring food up in just a bit.”

Sherlock made his way up to the flat, dropping his bag in the red chair by the fireplace that had come with the flat that he never used. He much preferred the black leather and metal chair that sat across from it. He looked towards the door to make sure that Mrs. Hudson had not followed him up unnoticed, and took the scarf from the bag, taking it to his bedroom so  she wouldn’t see it. Sherlock was not prepared to share.

Mrs. Hudson constantly stated that she was not his housekeeper, but that hadn’t stopped her from coming up to tidy the flat every few days. She thankfully always kept out of his room though. She had once prattled on about a young man’s privacy and all that. At the time, Sherlock had barely paid attention, but now he was eternally grateful for the woman’s view on the matter.

Sherlock stepped through the door to the bathroom and stripped down. He thought of the young doctor-to-be, wondering if he had noticed his missing scarf yet. Based on the time he had run out of the coffee shop, Sherlock assumed he was still sitting for his exam.  As he got under the warm water of the shower, he couldn’t help thinking about the attractive blond, hunched over his books, studying. Sherlock found himself sneaking glances at him from behind the counter when the young med student wasn’t looking. As he washed himself, he thought of the man’s habit of sticking his tongue out when he read the material. As Sherlock remembered the look of concentration on the gorgeous man’s face, he felt a flush of heat to his groin. Sherlock paused, took a deep breath and forced himself to stop from wondering further, because no matter how Sherlock for the man, he knew, there was nothing he would be doing about the matter.

He stepped out the shower, and heard Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs as he was toweling himself off. He went back into his bedroom, and dressed in a soft pair of light blue pyjama bottoms and white vest. When he came down the hall to the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson was laying out breakfast on the table. She’d fried up eggs and bacon, but knowing Sherlock’s sweet tooth, she’d also heavily laden the tray with sweet pastries, butter and jams.  

Sherlock sat and began picking at the food she had made for him, as she washed the tea cups that he had let build up in the sink.

“No picking at just the sweets, Sherlock. You better eat the eggs and bacon too.”

She turned around to give him a stern look and he made sure she had her eyes on him before shoveling a big bite of eggs into his mouth and gave her a gesture asking,  _ Satisfied woman? _

She gave a huff and turned back to the sink. Sherlock immediately took the opportunity to smother his toast in butter and jam.

“So, how was work, Sherlock?”

He shrugged at her, as he commonly did while she prattled on.

She turned to him as she dried the last cup, “Any interesting customers? Oh, did you see that cute doctor fellow?”

Sherlock blushed, choking on his mouthful of toast, and fixed her with a stare.

“Oh, I’m sorry, not a doctor yet, I know; the cute  _ med student?  _ Well, did you?”

Sherlock couldn’t quite meet her eyes. He knew it had been the worst kind of mistake to let her know about his interest in the attractive young man. Yet, he could not help himself as he gave a small nod while chewing his jam laden toast.

“Have you talked to him? Well, not talk… well, you know what I mean, Sherlock.”

He looked down, fixated on his cup, and gave a small exasperated shrug.  _ You know I can’t do that Mrs. Hudson. _

She sat down across from him, took his hands in hers, and gave a small squeeze. “Sherlock, you may not speak anymore, but you communicate just fine. We talk all the time.”

_ Yes, woman, I know. _

“You have your phone and your text messages. You make it through all your classes, you’d be top of your class if you made attendance any sort of priority.”

He snorted at that, the thought of meeting the school’s standards below him.

“Yes, I know you don’t give a care for that, I’m sure it’s all below you.” It really did surprise him how well Mrs. Hudson did seem to understand him, “But what I’m saying, Sherlock dear, is that when it suits you, you can communicate more eloquently than all of us that never shut up.”

She gave his hands a final quick squeeze, before taking his empty plate and rinsing it in the sink. She turned to take his mug but stopped and looked straight at Sherlock.

“If I were still a betting woman, I’d say you are just using it as an excuse because you’re too scared to admit you like this boy.”

Schooling his face as best he could to avoid answering her, he rose, pointed towards his room, and gave her a slight nod of thanks.

“Yes dear, fine, get yourself to bed. I’ll finish up in here.”

Once back in his bedroom with the door securely shut behind him, he eyed the scarf on the nightstand. He laid down, curling under the duvet, letting himself feel the exhaustion for the first time. He reached out, and let his fingers slide over the soft material. Something about seeing the scarf there, next to him, in his bedroom, within his reach, calmed him. His fingers closed around it, and he pulled it under the covers, snuggled up against his chest. The salty smell of ocean was still there in the woven threads. A contented smile crossed Sherlock’s lips as he let slumber take him, holding on to the scarf like a child’s sacred teddy bear.

 

~~~~~

 

John sat back in his chair, finally finished with his exam, uncertain how he had done. He stood up and walked to the professor’s desk at the front of the classroom, twisting his neck this way and that to work out the kinks from sitting so long, when a sudden feeling of peace and contentment settled over him. The feeling came over him without cause or apparent reason and somehow he knew, the feelings were not his own. 

John handed over his exam, and then grabbed his bag on his way out the door. He gave a quick wave to Mike, who was still working on the test, and left. He walked down the hall, planning to head out of the building, but the odd feeling would not go away. He popped into the loo, thinking a quick splash of cold water will get his head back on straight. As John turned on the faucet, he glanced up at himself in the mirror.

And finally noticed.

He looked down, then back up at his reflection.

His heart skipped a beat and his breath faltered.

It was gone. His scarf. His skin. His true nature.

Gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is so much fun to write! Sometimes having no real plan for these boys is a joy to watch unfold.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to the fantastic [JCF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCF) for being an amazing beta for this! Us Selkie!Lock folk have to stick together!!
> 
> As always, I welcome your comments, questions, anything!! 
> 
> You can always come check me out on Twitter, [Pufflelock](https://twitter.com/PuffleLock)


	3. Chapter 3

Exhaustion needed nothing more than a gentle tug to pull Sherlock under. He clutched the other man’s scarf close to him, tucked under his chin like the security blanket that he never knew he needed. As deep sleep took him, his mind quieted and was at peace; for once not a dumping ground for the endless data he had taken in during his waking hours. As he burrowed deeper under his bedding, breathing in the rich ocean smell of the scarf, a quiet dream began to play itself out in his mind. He saw fleeting images of a seaside cottage; of walls covered with shells and bright jewels, vines with blooming, fragrant flowers crawling reaching towards the sky. In his dream, he walked around the cottage to a small, lovingly tended garden with a table at its center, among the flowers. The young blond from the coffee shop sat at the table, Sherlock’s Aunt Adeline’s antique tea set in front of him. Sherlock watched as he poured a cup, not realizing that he was staring until the other man looked up, storm clouds meeting sea-glass. They shared a moment, neither looking away; the air charged with electric, unspoken words as Sherlock approached. He sat, and the other man handed him his tea, their fingers brushing as Sherlock took the cup. He felt his heart stutter with that one slight touch. He knew so little of this man, only what he had been able to deduce from afar, but he felt, if even only in his dream, that he had come home.

 

*

 

John stared at himself, his heart racing, panic rising as he focused on the reflection and the mirror image of his bare neck. He couldn't remember a time that he did not know exactly where his scarf was in the nearly ten years since he’d taken to land. He thought of what would happen to him if he lost the scarf. That small piece of fabric, his true skin, was his only connection to his genuine nature. Without his skin, John would never be able to return to his seal form. And while he could survive his entire life without shifting again, to do so would be to deny himself. That occasional shift reconnected him to that other world in which he existed. He needed it to feel truly whole; to feel himself, in all the ways he existed.

An even worse fate would befall him if his skin was found by another, who took it for their own. The Elders of his clan often told cautionary tales of Selkies losing their skins to humans, whose possession of the seal skin was possession of the Selkie themselves. The Selkie became enslaved to the new owner of their skins, bound by thought and action, unless they could take control of their skin again.

There were human versions of these ancient tales that John had heard too, but they changed the word from “slave” to “married.” How could such a selfish act be marriage? Marriage among Selkie, a practice wrapped in countless ages of magic and ritual, worked entirely different - though it was rituals surrounding their skins that were at their heart. It wasn’t the possession of the skin but the specific manner the skin was returned to your beloved betrothed that cemented Selkie marriage.

John closed his eyes, and tilted his head to the ceiling, trying best to jog his memory. Where did he last have it? Did he leave it at the flat? He thought it possible, seeing how early it had been. Christ, it had still been dark, and he’d been barely awake when he had gotten ready. Having the scarf with him was such a constant for John, wrapping it around his neck such practiced muscle memory, could he possibly just overlooked it, assuming he had put it on before leaving?

He started the faucet and splashed his face with cold water once again. After giving himself a quick once-over, he left the loo, first making his way back to the lecture hall to double-check his seat. When he got to the door and peeked in, he saw the room nearly cleared out. The back row, where he had been sitting, was empty and it was obvious his scarf wasn’t there. He then turned and ran out of the building, paying no heed to the shouts of several fellow students he ran past without regard.

He made his way straight back to his and Mike’s flat, fear trailing on his heels, quickly closing the gap. He made it back and ran up the three flights of stairs as quickly as he could. He fumbled with his key, before ramming it home and bursting through the door, doubling over to catch his breath. He scanned the sitting room, thankful that Mike wasn’t home. He was too distraught to come up with a suitable explanation for his wild-eyed look and out of breath panting.

John ran down the hallway to his room, dropping his bag and coat by the door, before tearing everything apart to find his lost skin.

 

*

 

As Sherlock lay wrapped under his sheets, he started breathing heavily, his heart picking up speed. The pleasant dream of tea and biscuits with the attractive man at the old familiar cottage turned on him. He felt a sudden jolt of fear course through him, leaving him panicked and helpless. He looked up as dark clouds gathered overhead, pressing down on him. Sherlock felt his world shift, felt something deep within himself crumble and shatter, like a vital organ being pulled from him. He knew this feeling. He’d felt it before, when It had happened. And he knew he was just as powerless now as he had been then.

His dream-self looked down and found the other man was no longer sitting at the table. Sherlock glanced around frantically and saw that he was not in the garden; another sharp stab of loss pierced straight through him. Sherlock could not explain his connection to the man, but he knew that he had to find him. After a desperate search of the cottage, Sherlock finally spotted the blond, walking away from him down the beach, fading into the horizon. Sherlock wanted to yell for him, call out, scream for him to come back, but he couldn’t.

_Well... I could. But what if I just made it worse, like before?_

He couldn’t risk It happening again.

So, Sherlock ran; ran after the man he couldn’t call after, the man whose name he didn’t even know. Sherlock tried his damndest to reach him. He knew, in his gut, that the other man was in danger and it was his job to keep him safe somehow. But like so many nightmares, it didn’t matter that Sherlock was running faster than he ever could in reality; the faster he ran after the blond, the further away the other man seemed.

 

*

 

John sat in the middle of the flat’s sitting room, his scarf nowhere to be found. It wasn’t there. He had torn the small space apart, from top to bottom, starting the path of destruction in his room. When his search of that room proved fruitless, he quickly spread his search, and the wreckage that it caused, to the rest of the flat. He’d apologize to Mike about the mess later.

John beat himself up trying to remember when he’d last had it. He had doubted, from nearly the start of his search, that it would be in the flat at all. Wrapping the scarf around his neck each morning was such an ingrained habit, he knew he wouldn't have forgotten it. He lay back on the sitting room rug and stared up at the ceiling trying to make some sense of it all.

A nerve-racking thought came to mind while he laid there. If his skin wasn’t here, could this explain the odd feeling that had come over him earlier? If his skin was out there, somewhere in the world, could that have been the moment someone else had taken it? His worry over the scarf had pushed all other thoughts and feelings to the side, but now that he’d stopped, he realized he could still feel the other presence, lingering on the edges. It was as if someone had parked themselves into a tiny alcove behind his heart, trying to keep quiet, but doing a poor job of it. It was barely enough to notice, like a small splinter stuck under the skin; it didn’t hurt, but he knew it was there; a tiny sharpness you can feel only when you brush against the skin.

John stopped and let himself pay attention to the other presence, quickly realizing that the feeling had changed. The sense of contentment from before was gone now, replaced with anxiety and worry. It felt different from his own; it was worry for a loved one. John couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the foreign intelligence.

John sat up, panic rolling through him once again. If someone else claimed the scarf for their own, he would be enslaved to them. John searched himself, but did not feel compelled by another's thoughts, just felt a presence. So, it seemed, whoever had it, didn’t consider it theirs yet.

Perhaps he still had a chance.

The Elders had said that a Selkie would always be called to their skin. John would find it, eventually. The question plaguing him - the one not allowing him to calm enough to feel its Call - was when he did find it, would he be free to take it back?

If someone else had the scarf, they did not realize the potential power they had by simply holding it. The moment this random person thought, "This is mine," John's fate would be sealed. He had bet his own free will against the wisdom of the Elders and this is what it had gotten him.

It was in this moment of self-pity, that Mike chose to walk into the flat.

“Whoa there, mate.” Mike looked around, first at the state of the flat, then at the state of his flatmate.

John waited, nervous for Mike’s reaction. Instead of getting mad, thankfully Mike just shook his head and laughed before picking his way through the disaster. He shoved aside a pile of textbooks that had landed on the couch and sat down. “I take it you lost something?”

John sat up, and held his head in his hands, “Yeah, my scarf. I realized I didn’t have it after class, but frankly, I don’t remember the last place I had it.”

“Yeah, I noticed you weren’t wearing it when you showed up.” John looked at him, surprised Mike had noticed. “I mean, you’re always wearing the thing so it’s a bit hard not to notice the one time you’re not. Don’t worry about it, John, I have one you can borrow if you need it.

“No, dammit!” John was pissed at himself that somehow Mike noticed that he didn’t have it, when he had missed it completely. He felt like shit for taking it out on his friend though. “Sorry, Mike, that wasn’t meant for you. I’m pissed at myself. The scarf’s special. My mom gave it to me right before the accident... before she died. That’s why I always wear it. I have to find it.”

John forced himself to take a long series of deep breaths to calm himself. He hated telling the lie, especially now, when his family and their way of life, with all the ritual and magic, was in the forefront of his mind. Breathing a little easier, he realized, if the scarf wasn’t in the flat, and he didn’t have it when he had gotten to class, that meant he must have left it at the coffee shop. The spark in his gut told him he was right; he was finally allowing himself to hear the Call of his skin.

John jumped up from the floor suddenly to grab his coat and shoes from his room. He needed to go to the shop right away to see if it was still there. He was back down the hall and had just nearly made it out the door when Mike stopped him. “John, where do you think you’re going? Don’t you remember, we have rugby practice this afternoon?”

“What?” John stood there, with his hand on the door, staring blankly at his flatmate. His brain was already out the door, running towards the coffee shop, and he couldn’t understand why the hell Mike could think there was something else more important that he should be doing than finding his scarf.

“Practice? Rugby? Starts in like, fifteen minutes? You know, game this weekend? Remember Coach getting his britches in tizzy since so many people missed the last practice, so he made today’s practice mandatory?” Mike offered with an almost apologetic smile.

“Fucking hell!” John remembered with a cringe.

“John, come on, you can’t miss this game. We need you out there.”

John stared up at the ceiling, cursing himself and his apparently cursed luck. He knew he couldn’t let the team down by getting disciplined out of the game when all of this was his fault for not keeping track of the most important thing he owned in the first place. They were up against an old rival, and they had a serious chance at winning against them, which they hadn’t done in a long time. But every second he waited, he risked being enslaved to another.

Even at this risk to himself, though, he knew the answer.

“Fucking hell, no, I wouldn’t miss it. I just forgot; worrying about my scarf and all. Let me grab my kit. One second.” He gave Mike the most sincere looking smile he could muster, before reluctantly turning from the front door and heading back down to his room. He pulled his kit from under a pile of clothes strewn near the door. As he headed back to the sitting room, he could hear Mike opening the front door.

“Thank god. Cause you know Miligan would put Anderson in if you couldn’t play, and I hate that weasely little prick. And hey, we’ll run by the shop on the way back. I’m sure it’s there, shoved in the lost and found box waiting for you.”

John gave Mike a grin as he shouldered his bag and walked past him out the door. He only hoped that his face did not betray the sinking feeling in his gut. As he walked down the stairs and out the front door, he prayed to the old gods that Mike was right.

 

*

 

Sherlock woke with a start from a sleep full of strange dreams. He looked around in confusion for a few long seconds; for a moment not recognizing his own four walls surrounding him. He shook himself awake with a deep breath, letting reality and the waking world slowly come back to him.

The imagery in his dreams were wholly unfamiliar, which was unusual and confusing to him. Ordinarily, his dreams - when he remembered them - were a loop of the day’s events and thoughts replayed over and over as he sorted and stored it all in his mind. In his dreams today, though, he was the observer of someone else’s story.

He felt rested; more so than usual after only sleeping for a few hours, but as he started moving, he realized that oddly, he felt physically exhausted. His muscles groaned at him like he’d run for hours. With a warmth in his belly, he recalled flashes of muscled legs; stocky tanned legs running, covered in sweat and mud.

He dragged himself up to sitting and swung his long legs off the side of the bed; the other man’s scarf still clutched in his hands. He had planned to make his way to the coffee shop today to pick up his paycheck, and he knew he should take it with him, to see if the other man had come by looking for it yet. Without thinking about it, he lifted the material, again taking in the comforting, oddly familiar salt-air scent of the scarf.

Sherlock knew that he would have to give up the scarf soon; it wasn’t his. He thought, with a hint of guilt but a sly smile nonetheless, that he wouldn’t mind holding on to it for a few more hours at least though.

Sherlock silently grimaced as he stood and shuffled his way down to the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, he realized with a cringe that he would likely have to deal with Sally, who was scheduled for the day shift. She was a cruel, shallow girl that had taken an instantaneous dislike to Sherlock, after he had pointed out the obvious (to him at least) extra-marital affair her father was having behind her mother’s back. Sally never called Sherlock by his name, only ever referring to him as The Freak when she was forced to talk to him. They never worked together; the manager, Lestrade, was a smart man and after only one disastrous shift, knew never to schedule them together again.

He finished getting ready, adding a touch of the expensive cologne Mummy had given him for Christmas the year before, even though he’d rarely used it before then. He then spent a few extra minutes styling his curls, wrestling with a particularly stubborn one in the front that was intent on doing what it, not Sherlock, wanted.

_It’s all for no reason, really. I mean, of course, if I happen to see him somehow, he should know that whoever has had his scarf is clean and well-kept and has taken care of it. That’s it. That’s the only reason. I’m sure he wouldn’t notice anyway, I mean, why should he? He doesn’t know me. It’s just a scarf, Sherlock, he doesn’t care who’s had it. He probably hasn’t even noticed that its missing._

Sherlock went to his bedroom to get dressed, picking out a tight, but comfortable pair of dark jeans, and a black button up that he thought looked acceptable against his pale complexion. He grabbed his bag, carefully laying the scarf on top, before shouldering the bag gently, so as not to jostle its contents too much.

When Sherlock got to the coffee shop, he thankfully saw only a light afternoon crowd filled with a few students from the nearby campus. But, unfortunately, he also saw that Sally was indeed working. She stood behind the counter, handing an order of tea to a young, tired-looking woman.

Sherlock set his bag down at the table closest to the counter, waiting until Sally had finished with customer. He took his phone from his pocket, quickly jabbing away on the note-taking app he had ready for these situations.

Sally saw him standing there, and without even trying to hide the contempt in her eyes, sneered, “What do you want, Freak? Greg’s in the back with the paychecks.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, before turning his phone for Sally to read the text.

**Has anyone come in looking for a missing scarf?**

He hated that Lestrade was in back, leaving him to deal with Sally. Sherlock avoided interacting with her as much as was possible. He had found that most people were quite accommodating with his lack of speech. He had always had the ability to make himself understood without a word spoken. Even as a young, spirited child, when his parents and older brother were certain that he would never tire of speaking, his intentions and emotions always played openly across his face.

But not Sally. She refused to understand any non-verbal communication he attempted, and she spoke to him loud and slow, as if his lack of speech had damaged his ears or addled his brain. Even now, with her put-out sigh and eye roll, she made reading eight simple words seem a burden.

“No, why?”

She sighed again as he took his phone back to type his response.

**I found one during my shift last night, and wished to return it to its owner, obviously.**

“That’s what the ‘lost and found’ box is for, Freak.” She pulled the box from under the counter, waving at it as if she was explaining its function to a five-year-old. He typed his response quickly.

**Yes, Sally, I am well-aware of the purpose of a ‘lost and found’ box. I already know who the scarf belongs to, but I do not know how to contact him. I did not trust leaving it in a common box for anyone to come along and steal.**

“Oh really, Freak? Since when do you give a shite about anyone else’s things? Wasn’t it you that ruined Molly’s jumper on purpose because you didn’t like the colour?”

**No matter, I will keep my eyes open for him.**

“No wait, I need to know who the hell has the Freak’s attention. Oh my god, please don’t tell me - you actually like this guy, don’t you?” An unfortunate blush rose to Sherlock’s pale face. “Oh for fuck’s sake, I bet you stole his shit, didn’t you? Just for an excuse to talk to your crush.” Though Sherlock was irritated at the direction of this conversation, at least the gender of his crush was not what caught Sally’s attention. He had long ago deduced that she had a little brother back home that was gay.

 It was then that Anderson, Sally’s on again, off again boyfriend walked through the front door. Sherlock saw that he had recently come from some sport practice, by the duffle on his shoulder, the sheen of drying sweat covering him, and grass stains on his clothes. Sherlock hated Anderson even more than his girlfriend. He was a bully, worse than even she. He frequently picked her up from work, today being one of those days, and he apparently had heard the back end of the conversation as he came in.

“Please tell me that I did not hear that right? The Freak? The wordless weirdo? Has a crush on someone? You have got to be fucking kidding me.” He looked over at Sally with a look of cruel glee in his eyes.

“Yeah, some bloke “left his scarf”, but Freak wants to hand it over personally, it seems. No doubt he'll probably kidnap the poor bastard and end up stringing him up in his basement.”

The look of disgust on Anderson’s face was instantaneous and complete, “Oh my god, you’re a fucking faggot too?”

Sherlock’s stomach coiled on him.

_That word. God no. Not that word. That’s what Victor said… What he called me…. before It happened._

A cloying wretched nausea rose up. Sherlock wanted to curl up, to hide, to get out. As Sally turned on Anderson, Sherlock backed up to the table that his bag was sitting on, knocking it over, the top flap falling open.

“Oi! Excuse me, who the hell do you think you are, talking like that, Philip?”

“What?” The clueless moron said to his (probably now off, for at least a little while) girlfriend.

“My baby brother is one of those fucking faggots, you arsehole!”

“Oh, you know I don’t mean him, come on, it’s not like that, Sally. It’s The Freak we’re talking about here.”

Anderson looked over just at Sherlock, and saw his open bag, with the scarf right on top.

“Oh god, that’s it, isn’t it? Holy shit, that’s John Watson’s! He’s always wearing that fucking thing. Hell, he was saying at practice that he lost it, was going kinda mad about it,” he said, and then, with a mean-spirited laugh, “Just left him in fact. Here, I’ll take it off your hands Freak; bet he’d love to know that some poufy-ass weirdo is pining over him.”

Anderson reached around Sherlock to snatch the scarf out of his bag. Sherlock turned around quickly and grabbed at it too. He fixed Anderson with a feral snarl; he couldn’t stop himself. The thought of the small-minded brute’s vile hands touching the other man’s scarf filled him with rage.

Anderson met Sherlock’s face with a sneer of his own, tugging at the scarf like some horrendous version of tug-of-war, “Come on Freak, John doesn’t want your sick hands over his shite. Let go!”

Sherlock looked down to where Anderson’s hands gripped the material. He was furious, but couldn’t risk pulling any harder and ripping it, so he grabbed Anderson’s hand at the thumb and twisted it back, forcing him to loosen his grip with a howl.

The voice in Sherlock’s mind screamed.

_No, you can not have it! It’s mine!_

*

John was running full sprint to the coffee shop, despite his legs already feeling like jelly after practice. He had just made it across a busy intersection when he felt it happen; the small presence hiding behind his heart burst open and John felt a strong possessive grip clench around his soul.

John stumbled on the pavement, catching himself on the corner of a building. He knew it, his scarf, his skin, his connection to his true self, had been claimed by another. He doubled over, catching his breath, when he felt the pull, like a hook reaching down deep into his gut. The Call of his new master was impossible for him to ignore. He shut his eyes as images of dark curls, pale skin, and bright impossibly blue eye flashed hard and fast in his mind.

After a few ragged breaths, John looked up, feeling the call pulling him in the direction he had already been going. With clumsy, tired legs he felt he was barely controlling, John kept running until he saw the coffee shop ahead of him. As he wrenched the door open, he crashed straight into the young barista. Both men fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and as they struggled to right themselves, their eyes met with a brief smile. The brunet’s face quickly changed, his eyes suddenly wide with terror. He dropped his eyes as they both scrambled to get up.

John was the first to stand and as he offered his hand to help the other man up, he saw his scarf twined around his long nimble fingers.

“You,” he said with something like relief in his voice.

He couldn’t have picked a better master if he had tried.

Before John could say another word, Sherlock scurried to his feet, grabbed his bag from the table, and ran out the door with John’s scarf still twisted around his hand. John stared at the door as it slammed shut behind the tall brunet. He turned to the stunned faces behind him and saw Anderson and his insipid girlfriend standing there, mouths open in shock. He screamed at them as he pointed at the door, “His name, what’s his name?!”

Anderson shook himself out of his stare and answered, “Who? The Freak? Holmes, That’s Sherlock Holmes. Look mate, he has your scarf, I think the fucking faggot stole it.”

John was in Anderson’s face in a heartbeat, the predator inside him unleashing it’s fury at that word. He had Anderson against the wall by his neck, with enough pressure to make his point known. “No, you fucking arsehole, he found it and was holding onto it for me, keeping it safe. And Anderson? I am one of those fucking faggots. If I ever hear of you using that fucking word again, I will destroy you.”

John let go, letting the coward drop to the floor and ran after Sherlock, calling his name, begging him to stop. He thanked the old gods for strong legs that could catch up with the long-legged bastard. After a minute, he finally caught up to Sherlock. He reached out, grabbed for his wrist, his arms, anything to slow him down. Finally, the taller man slowed and stopped, his shoulders slumped in defeat and waited.

“Listen, Sherlock - that’s your name, right? Look, I’m not mad, please. I swear. I know you didn’t steal it, I left it here this morning. You’ve taken good care of it, I see. Please, you can keep it for all I care. (why did I say that??) I just want to talk to you.”

He waited, looking at Sherlock’s back, watching for some sign that he was listening. John felt his heart stutter with hope as Sherlock finally turned and raised his face to meet John’s eyes.

Bright brilliant impossible eyes filled with oceans of emotion looked straight into John’s soul.

Sherlock took a resigned breath and stepped up to John. He wrapped the scarf around John’s neck carefully, before placing his hands on John’s shoulders, his thumbs tracing small circles against John’s skin. Sherlock looked down at him, meeting his eyes once more before leaning in and kissing him softly.

He pulled back after a moment (eternity), and he did something that he had not done for over five years.

Like honey over barbed wire, his rusty baritone voice spoke, “John Watson, when I turn around, you will forget you’ve ever met me.”

With a final kiss to John’s forehead, Sherlock turned and walked away.

 

*

 

The spell was broken, and John stood there, no longer compelled by mystical slavery to follow the tall gorgeous man walking away from him. But he wanted to anyway.

He knew, by the devastated look in the man’s eyes, that he expected John to listen, to stay away. There was guilt and pain in those eyes; guilt and pain that John wanted to spend a lifetime soothing away.

How could John not follow the gorgeous man? He had claimed, and then returned, John’s skin; delivered it to him with a kiss so tender, so full of love, John’s heart felt like bursting from the mere memory.

By all the old Selkie laws and magics, John couldn’t stay away from him.

After all, Sherlock was now his husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, finally... an update! Yeah!! 
> 
> First of all, I do apologize for taking so long since the last update, but as many of you know, I have had a very difficult past few weeks. Getting my head back into writing has taken time, but I am super-proud of what I've got here!
> 
> Secondly, Thank you to everyone for your support and love. You all have been one of the brightest spots in the very dark days I've had.
> 
> Thirdly, A HUGE thank you to my wonderful, amazing, spectacular, fabulouso beta, [JCF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCF), for finding all my silly mistakes and helping me sound like a quasi-intelligent human being!!
> 
> And last but not least, as always, don't hesitate to comment, critique, etc!! And don't forget to check me out over on the twitters.... [Pufflelock](https://twitter.com/PuffleLock) or tumblr [Pufflelock](http://pufflelock.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock turned from John and before he could question himself or what he was doing, he ran. He made it to the end of the street, blindly letting instinct and his feet decide the direction. Running hard and fast, slipping in and out of dark alleys and dodgy streets, Sherlock could not escape the overwhelming sense of loss crashing down around him. He had just said goodbye to the beautiful man forever and knew he had to get away from him before he changed his mind. Sherlock maneuvered quickly, the maps in his head instinctively keeping him away from the cameras. He had a sneaking suspicion that his older brother Mycroft had begun using his new “minor” position in the British government to meddle with his life more than ever. Sherlock knew his brother would not be above using the city’s CCTV to track his every movement.

Sherlock wanted to be left alone to his misery and guilt, not scooped up and interrogated by his interfering twat of an older brother. Sherlock was the one who now had to live with the fact that he had been a coward; running away, instead of facing whatever it was that had happened between him and John.

_No Sherlock, you are not a coward, you did the right thing, the selfless thing._

_This will keep him safe._

_This will keep him safe from you._

Running was the only thing he could do - he had to get away from John. He knew he had to leave the other man behind, but god, he didn’t want to. Sherlock wanted to be childish; he wanted to be the selfish bastard everyone believed him to be. He wanted John all to himself. Sherlock wanted to be everything to the captivating young man, and somehow, Sherlock knew in that moment, it was possible.

Something had happened when he had ripped the scarf from Anderson’s hands. Ridiculous and utterly impossible as it seemed, Sherlock had felt an instant soul-consuming link with John, like an invisible line snapping into place across the distance separating them. With that connection, Sherlock had felt a surge of power and he _just knew_ John had felt it too. He could see John in his mind and he felt that the other man sensed him. Sherlock could practically feel John being drawn to him; could feel the blond start to run toward the coffee shop. He felt the pounding of John’s feet against the pavement as he ran, the beat in sync with the pounding of Sherlock’s heart in his chest. 

It was only because of the inexplicable connection that Sherlock had somehow created that John was coming at all, so he had to get as far as he could before John could see him. Sherlock would find a way to break the bond because with that rush of power, he knew that John would have done anything Sherlock asked of him. He had felt it, the control over the other man. It had felt so wrong, but God help him… 

He had been so fucking tempted.

How quickly Sherlock’s plans had been thrown the winds, because running into John, as devastatingly embarrassing as it had been, had only made the connection stronger.  Tendrils of electric heat reached out between them over every point where they had touched. Sherlock’s mind was flooded with the desire to take the other man, possess him, right there in front of god and country. But no, he wouldn’t. He had better control over his transport than that.

Sherlock knew that John was a fiercely independent person. It was a trait that Sherlock had deduced immediately, watching him from behind the counter every time John had come in. It was obvious in his mannerisms, the way he wore his clothes, his hair, the way carried his bag. Sherlock knew to take that independence from him would be to take the very essence of what made John, John. It would destroy the very core of who John was.

Only a monster would take satisfaction from destroying such a beautiful thing.

_Ok, well, I may be a monster, but I am not evil, thank you very much._

When he had fought Anderson for the scarf, he had broken down and allowed himself one terrible, selfish moment, claiming the soft blue cashmere scarf in his mind. That was all it had taken to somehow strip that beautiful man of his very own free will. Sherlock knew it was because of who he was - of _what_ he was. He truly was ‘The Freak’ Sally always claimed him to be. 

By Sherlock’s very own _aberrant_ nature, he had done _something_ to the scarf when he had laid claim to it, and therefore to John as well. It had taken every ounce of Sherlock’s considerable self-control to even look at John when he had caught up with him. Sherlock knew it had been his influence over John that had the shorter man saying such kind things to him. 

It was with that thought that Sherlock had decided to simply give John back his scarf. If taking possession of the scarf is what had given him control over John, he prayed that returning it would be enough to fix his grievous sin. 

His whispered words, the first he had spoken in half a decade, commanding John to forget him, had taken all his strength to utter.  It somehow would be better to live in the void of never seeing John again, than in a world where John knew his own mind had been taken from him, and Sherlock had been the one to do it. He couldn’t stand to ever have John look at him with hatred, knowing what he had done.

His control over John was power taken, not earned, not wanted, and definitely not deserved. He knew that there was something truly special about the stunning blond. There was something _more_ about him. Sherlock was not a thief, especially not to someone so spectacular, someone he so easily could’ve loved for a lifetime.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, skidding to a halt in front of an overflowing bin. He looked around to find himself in some vacant alleyway, years of crude graffiti littering the brick wall across from him.

_Love? Now there’s a surprising thought. Could I have loved him? Maybe, someday, that could’ve happened._

_Fuck! I’ve ruined everything. Not that I would’ve deserved it anyway. Not being what I am._

Sherlock sighed, looked up and continued to run from what he had done.

 

*

 

John panicked when he realized he was standing like a fool, fingers raised to his lips where Sherlock had kissed him, when instead he should be running after the man. He had no idea how he was going to explain this - who he was, _what_ he was, and that by ancient magic that most had no idea even existed, Sherlock had gained himself, for lack of a better word, a husband. 

Unfortunately, in order to even begin explaining any of it _and_ hopefully not scare the absolutely beautiful man away, John needed to find him first. 

John ran to the end of the street, his head twisting around to find both ways empty. Like a stone dropping in the pit of his stomach, panic started to build as he looked around desperately for some clue to which direction Sherlock would’ve gone. John was nearly at a loss when an idea struck him.  

_The others at the coffee shop will know how to contact Sherlock!_  

John realized he could give his number to them to pass along to Sherlock.  He knew Sally only in passing, from the coffee shop and from seeing her with Anderson, his homophobic twat of teammate. If she was anything like her boyfriend, John would find no love lost from her. But he was friendly with Molly from seeing her around campus. She was also a med student, a year behind him; John remembering her speaking of going into pathology. But still, she didn’t know him well, and had no obligation to help. 

John decided, if this were the case, if they wouldn't help willingly, he would use his power of influence to gain help from them. He hated using it, but he was desperate to find Sherlock.

John turned and hauled arse back to the shop. Before going in, he peered through the window hoping that Anderson would be gone. While John had zero problems standing up to him if he started anything; John was a natural predator, after all; he really did not feel like wasting his precious time on him when it could be spent finding Sherlock.

He was relieved to see Anderson nowhere in sight (though he would certainly be having a lengthy talk with the prick at their next practice). Only Sally, Molly, and a dark-haired man, whom John had seen before but never spoken to, were inside, behind the counter.  When Molly saw John at the window, she came around, worry and relief mixing up all together across her expressive face as John stepped through the door.

“Oh John! Are you ok? I just got here. Greg and Sally were telling me what happened. Where’s Sherlock, is he with you? Is he ok?” She looked over John’s shoulder to see if Sherlock was behind him.

John sat himself down at one of the tables near the door and looked up at the worry on her face. “No, Molly, he’s not. I... I don’t know what happened. I wanted to talk to him. I mean, he ran out and I caught up with him and everything. I got a handful of words out before he just gave me back my scarf and took off.”

“Dammit Sherlock!”

Certainly not expecting that reaction from Molly, John hoped that she didn’t think he was mad at Sherlock for what had happened between them. 

“Molly, please. I know he meant nothing by it. I don’t know what they said about what happened, but I swear, if they said he stole my stuff, he didn’t. I left it this morning, ran off without it, he was just being nice.”

She gave him a soft look and sat down across from him. “Oh John, I know he didn’t steal it, he’d never steal anything from you. He didn’t do anything wrong, except panic, like a big dumb baby. I just knew he would do something like this!” With a huff she sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

Confusion crossed John’s face, “Molly, what are you talking about?”

With a look clearly saying she thought he was being extremely obtuse, she leaned towards him. “John, he likes you, and here he has his big chance and he panics!” 

“What do you mean he likes me? How do you know that? Did he say something?”

“Well, of course he didn’t, but John, I have eyes. I can tell by the way he looks at you every single time you come in. Jesus, I had a crush on him for a minute when he first started working here; until I saw him looking at you and I knew I didn’t have a chance.  From what Sally was saying, he found your scarf this morning but wanted to give it to you personally?” John looked up and nodded. “John, that is huge for Sherlock, and I think… well, I think he just got scared and panicked.”

Sally and the dark-haired man came over to the table and John saw a rare look of something akin to guilt on Sally’s face as she threw her jacket on. 

“Probably didn’t help Philip was being a right arsehole to him. John, I’m really sorry. I had no idea what a homophobic prick he was. Listen, I know I give Sherlock grief all the time, so I’m not much better, and but our bickering is cause I just don’t like him, it has nothing to do with him being gay, for god’s sake.”

John knew that she was trying to help, if only to make herself feel better probably, but he’d take it.  “Yeah, and me barrelling straight into him coming through the door didn't help either.” Sally gave him a sympathetic grin before heading out the door, waving goodbye to them.

What John didn’t say was how the mere seconds that they had been tangled had been like nothing he had ever felt before. Sherlock’s touch had felt familiar - like coming home. It was a feeling of wholeness not unlike how he felt when he shifted.  He could barely contain himself against the rush of warmth that flooded his chest when he thought back to the fleeting glimpse into Sherlock’s impossible sea-glass eyes. John knew he had to ask, silently preparing himself to use his ability if needed.

“Listen, Molly, if I gave you my number, do you think you could get it to Sherlock? Please, I’d really like to talk to him; thank him at least for keeping my stuff safe.”

Molly smiled at him and leaned forward, “Or,” She dragged out, glancing over at the other man standing by Sally, “I believe that Greg has some paperwork on Sherlock to do in the office, so maybe… you might happen to see that paperwork when you go back to use the loo and walk past the office, and just maybe happen to memorize his phone number so you can text Sherlock right away.” She finished with a big smile and over-theatrical wink.

Greg rolled his eyes and finally spoke, “Oh for Christ’s sake, Molls, even I’ve seen how Sherlock is around this guy,” nodding to John. “Listen mate, I can just give you his info, should even have his address back there.” 

John looked up wide-eyed at Greg, unable to believe his luck, “But, you don’t know me.”

“No, I don’t. I mean, I’ve seen you around and all, you seem like a nice enough guy. But Molly here likes you and I trust her. And hell, I like Sherlock, even though he does his best to piss me off most days. I wouldn’t mind seeing him a little happier around here.”

Greg gave John a sympathetic look, before heading through the door the back office. Molly got up and went back behind the counter, a slightly guilty look on her face, as she remembered she was supposed to be working. 

While John waited, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.  He pulled it out to see a message from Mike.

**Mike:**

**Sorry I couldn’t head out with you, any luck at the coffee shop?**

John huffed a laugh to himself and rolled his eyes.

**Sent:**

**Well, that’s one way of putting it.**

**Mike:**

**Scarf, tall dark & handsome, or both?**

**Sent:**

**Both, I guess. Have my scarf back. TD &H (his name is Sherlock, btw) had it, but I managed to scare him away.**

John knew he was over-simplifying this insane afternoon, but there was no way to even start explaining this to his flatmate over text.

**Mike:**

**Jesus man, sorry.**

**Sent:**

**Well, I might have a second chance. Apparently, you weren’t the only one to notice something about me and him. His co-workers are helping me out. I’ll tell you about it later, k?**

**Mike:**

**Great! good luck, mate!**

John looked up as he slipped his phone back into his pocket to see Greg coming out from the back, a slip of paper in his hands.

“Here ya go,” he said, handing the scrap to John. He stood and gathered his things, triple checking that his scarf was securely around his neck this time.  

“Ta, Greg, really. I mean it, thank you.” 

As John stepped out of the shop, he had to grin as he looked down to see “221B Baker St.” in Greg's big block writing, along with a little winking smiley face and "Go get him, Tiger" in the corner. 

 

*

 

After what seemed an eternity, Sherlock figured he was far enough away from the shop and from John to finally stop running. He walked until, exhausted, he found himself on a quiet secluded bank of the Thames, a deteriorating stone wall as his seat, with a large abandoned warehouse at his back. 

Sherlock often wandered the city while he thought; it’s street holding a magic over him ever since he had been old enough to escape his nannies. The rush of the city was the only thing louder than the tempest inside Sherlock’s mind. His mental map of London was by far more detailed and full of unusual points of interests than anything ever committed to paper. In all those details, the crumbling wall he sat on was his favourite. 

Sherlock listened as the Thames flowed past him; comforted, as he always had been, by the sound of the water. His thoughts drifted once again to his Aunt Adeline’s cottage by the sea, and of childhood exploring its mysteries. He had loved the month each summer he and Mummy spent there on holiday, and the sleepy peaceful joy he felt, playing amongst the waves. 

Sherlock sadly had not seen the ocean since he was twelve, during the last visit Sherlock and Mummy spent with Adeline before his aunt had fallen ill. She had passed away over the winter and Sherlock had been devastated. She had understood Sherlock in ways most adults simply did not. She never mocked him for his deductions; asking him the stories of the people around them. She never discouraged his experiments; often providing him with supplies he needed (especially when Mummy wasn’t looking). 

It had taken Sherlock ages to come out of his shell after his aunt’s death. He had been a lonely child, until everything changed the summer after Sherlock had turned sixteen. 

For a few glorious months, Sherlock thought he had found someone who liked him, who didn’t make him feel like a freak.

As Sherlock should’ve known, he had been wrong and that mistake had cost him his voice, nearly his sanity, and ultimately, another man’s life. 

Sherlock couldn’t risk the same thing happening with John. John was a good man. The two may never have _actually_ communicated in any true sense of the word, but Sherlock knew that John was popular yet still kind, intelligent but not arrogant; commanding without being cruel; all the normal things that Sherlock could never be. Sherlock had sent John away - had made him forget. He had to. 

Sherlock hung his head as the tears fell at the loss.

 

*

 

John was exhausted.  No one should really be running this much in one day.

He needed to talk to Sherlock - find some way to explain - so before he could let doubt cloud his mind, he ran towards the Baker Street address scribbled on the paper Greg had given him. He was nervous; still with no idea what he was going to say. How exactly does one explain all of this - that John wasn’t exactly human, that Sherlock had, for a short time, complete and total control over him and now, well, now they were married by Selkie Law? John was petrified that all he was going to manage to do was send Sherlock running. 

Again.

But he couldn’t let that happen. There was so much more to what he could have with Sherlock, and John couldn’t lose that chance.

Magic was a layered and complex thing; the fact that it existed at all hidden from most in the mortal world. Magic didn’t happen through a simple wave of a hand or by throwing together a bunch of plants or animal parts for potions. There were powers and forces that existed that even the Ancients had only begun to master. But one element that any of the different tribes could tell you is that the power of magic came from potential. 

Free Will did exist, of course, our lives and our choices are our own, but the Universe saw much more than we ever could, knowing where our choices had the potential to take us.

If Sherlock had chosen to simply hand John back his skin, they wouldn’t be married now. By Selkie Law, marriage did not exist based solely on words or ritual but binding to each other through the most powerful magic that existed - love.  The true, honest potential of love that existed between a couple is what sealed a marriage intended to last the ages. Sherlock, with his heart so readily open for John, signed and sealed the nuptials by the kiss he had gently and lovingly laid upon John’s lips. 

The clench in John’s chest, the racing blood in his veins, the pull and the rush, all telling him that the man who ran from him was the love of his life - or would be, as soon as they could start their life together. This was all assuming, of course, that Sherlock didn’t slam the door in his face when he got there.

As John ran, he was stopped at an intersection, waiting to cross when he felt his eyes being drawn to the small jewellery shop next to him. John wouldn’t normally be window-shopping for jewellery, but the small display in the front window featured a ring with a single aquamarine gem at its centre. The light and colour playing off the stone reminded John of the utter beauty of Sherlock’s ever-changing eyes. 

A quick glance at the tag on the ring and John knew he had to buy it. He could tell by looking, both because of having a Selkie’s exceptional vision and from having spent entirely too much time stealing glances at the other man’s elegant long fingers, that the ring would fit Sherlock perfectly. 

What kind of husband would he be not to have a wedding ring ready?

He ran in and purchased the ring; the whole transaction taking less than five minutes. John was out the door and back on his way as soon as he tucked the small velvet box into his coat pocket.

After several more minutes of running, he finally stood in front of the door with the big gold 221B gleaming at him; out of breath, no great plan having miraculously come to him, but thankfully he was too far gone on adrenaline to care. He knocked and stepped back, praying for the gorgeous man to open the door. 

He was surprised, as the door was opened, to be facing a barely five-foot-tall grandmother not a gorgeous six-foot brunet. Though his heart was hammering in his chest, he smiled as warmly as he could.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I am looking for Sherlock. I was told that he lives here?" 

"Oh, I'm sorry dear. Yes, Sherlock lives in the flat upstairs, but I don't think he's in at the moment. He left earlier to pick up his paycheck, but I haven't heard him come back yet. I tell can him you came by if you’d like?”

“Yes, yes, that would be fantastic!”

She gave him a look after he was silent for a moment.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I'm usually better than this, I swear. I have had a day.” He held out his hand, taking hers in a quick, gentle greeting, “I'm John, John Watson. But he might not know that though, never really gotten my name out to him before.” 

“You know where he lives, but he doesn't know your name?" she said with a raised eyebrow. 

“Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but I promise I got it from his boss, Greg, down at the coffee show.”

She looked at him, eyebrow still raised, waiting for him to continue.

“OK, it’s a long story, but I swear I'm not crazy or anything. Sherlock found something of mine, and when he gave it back, I wanted to talk to him - thank him and all, but he ran off before I had a chance to really say anything.” 

She looked him over before asking, “John, are you by any chance a medical student? Know Sherlock from that coffee shop he works at?

“Umm, yes... to both,” he said, unable to keep the question from his voice. He had no idea how the tiny woman could have known, “How did you...”

“Why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea with me?” she interrupted, “I just put the kettle on.”

“I umm…” he sputtered, “I don’t want to impose, ma’am.”

She patted his arm gently, “You can stop with that ma’am business. I’m Mrs. Hudson, I'm Sherlock's landlady, and you - I’ve heard about you. Now, please come keep an old lady company for a while. I’m sure Sherlock won’t be too much longer.”

John couldn’t help but smile at Mrs. Hudson as she turned around and stepped into her flat, knowing she fully expected John to be right behind her. He stepped into 221A, the flat decorations - all pink and lace - enforcing the grandmotherly air about her. He followed behind her to the kitchen when a picture on a table in the hallway caught his eye. 

He stopped and picked up the frame to get a closer look. In the photo was a small dark-haired child, sitting in front of a large elaborate-looking sandcastle. The boy’s face was turned to the camera. He looked ridiculously happy with his huge gap-toothed grin and wild curls falling in front of brilliant eyes flashing in mischief and pride. 

John walked into the kitchen; Mrs. Hudson lifting the kettle from the stove. “Excuse me, Mrs. Hudson,” John said, holding the picture out to her, “Is this Sherlock?”

She took the picture with a fond smile, “Oh, yes, it is. I think he was maybe four or five there. That boy just loved the beach, always messing about, experimenting and building his sandcastles, each one more detailed than the last.” She handed the picture back to John, with a gentle pat to his hand as he clenched the photo. “How do you take your tea, dear?”

"Just a splash of milk, please." John set the picture down before sitting at the table. Mrs. Hudson turned to pour tea for them. “I take it that you're not just his landlady, then?” 

“Oh no, dear. I mean, yes, I am his landlady now, but I've known Sherlock since he was just a tiny wee thing in nappies. Here, take a scone, dear." She handed John a plate, then his cup. “Sherlock’s mother and I have been dear friends since we were children ourselves.”

“Ta, these smell amazing, Mrs. Hudson.”

She looked him over, and John didn’t let himself squirm under the scrutiny, though he wanted to badly. She finally sat down across from John, taking a sip of her tea, "You know, I think Sherlock's manners would certainly improve a great deal with you around.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sherlock’s been on about you for a while now, dear. Ever since he started working down at that coffee shop. You seem like you might just be a good influence on that boy if you stick around.”

John laughed at the thought of being a good influence on anyone, but he felt it was best to keep that to himself, “I don’t know about all that, Mrs. Hudson.” And then he stopped, her words finally catching up with him. “What do you mean, ‘he’s been on about me?’”

“Oh, you have definitely caught Sherlock’s attention. Which, trust me, is a feat, especially since what happened to him in school. He ignores most people around him. So, there has to be something very special about you.” 

John was quiet for a moment, then, “What happened to him in school?”

Mrs. Hudson set her tea down, “You see, John, Sherlock was such a bright child, but he had a hard time fitting in with children his own age. For one, he was adopted, and while his parents never made him feel like there was anything wrong with that, I’m sure you know how cruel children can be when they find out there’s something different about you. Secondly, he was always so smart - could figure out everything about you, just by a glance; even when he was just a child. And some children didn’t like their secrets exposed by another child.

“There was one boy though, Victor, that Sherlock had become friends with while he was in secondary. His family moved in down the street when Sherlock was 16. Victor was the first boy that paid any sort of decent attention to him, and Sherlock soaked it up. I mean, I never trusted him, though. But I won’t speak ill of the dead... 

“I’m getting myself distracted. Right at the end of the school year, there was an _incident_. I don’t know what exactly happened, but they were on the roof of the school, and well, Victor jumped - right in front of Sherlock. The police came, of course, and that dear boy, he gave them his statement and afterwards, when his parents took him home, he locked himself in his room for a week. He came out finally, but it was like nothing had happened, like Victor had never existed. But that was when Sherlock stopped speaking.”

“What do you mean, “stopped speaking’? He spoke to me earlier.”

“I know he can get out the means so well you forget, but John, Sherlock hasn’t uttered a word in front of anyone else in over 5 years. Not since he was sixteen.”

John thought about it and realized that no, before today, he had never heard Sherlock speak. But the incident in the alley was not a figment of his imagination. Sherlock’s rich scratchy voice was nothing John’s imagination could have come up with.

“No, ma’am, sorry... I mean Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock spoke.” John knew he would have to omit a few finer details, but he felt she needed to know what happened. He briefly explained about losing his scarf and Sherlock finding it, then crashing into him at the coffee shop and Sherlock running off. “I caught up with him, tried to get him to talk to me, but all he did was give me back my scarf then tell me to forget about him. He ran off before I had a chance to say anything.”

Mrs. Hudson slowly set her tea cup down, and John swore he heard her mutter, “Oh Sherlock,” before she raised her eyes. 

“John, like I said, Sherlock didn’t have friends back then and he has used his lack of speech to keep people away since. Now, I’ve known Sherlock his entire life and since all this, he hasn’t said a word to me nor to any member of his family. He’s stayed silent through school, through his job, through his life. So, John, you are the first person, out of all of it, that he’s spoken to. Sounds like you mean something, doesn’t it?”

“But, Mrs. Hudson, it was to tell me to forget about him.” John felt a weight settle in his chest at his next thought. “Jesus, he must have really meant it then.” John sat back, suddenly sick with himself, tracking Sherlock down to his home like a fucking stalker. 

“No, John!” He looked up, startled by her sharp tone. “I’m sorry, but no, that’s not it at all. He’s trying to sabotage himself. I don’t know if he thinks he needs to punish himself, or that he doesn’t deserve it, or if he’s just scared of getting close to someone again. He pushed you away, yes, but I know, that is not what he wants.”

John sat there, mouth open, stunned by what she had said. While he tried to think of a reply, his thoughts were cut off by the sounds of the front door opening then shutting quietly. John felt a clench deep in his chest as his eyes followed the slow steady sound of footsteps on the stairs.

He continued to track the sound until he heard the door of 221B closing. He glanced back to Mrs. Hudson, was also looking up at the ceiling, a small sweet smile on her lips. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes dropped to meet John’s and she set her cup down. After a moment, she took John’s hand in her own, patting them warmly, letting him feel her affection.

“Please, John, go to him. He needs you.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What better way to celebrate my AO3-iversary than with an update!!
> 
> One year ago, I started this writing journey, and I want to thank every single one of you that have been along for the ride!
> 
> A giant thank you to my amazing beta - [JCF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCF).
> 
> As always, I live for comments!! Come poke at me on twitter! [Pufflelock](https://twitter.com/PuffleLock)


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